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    <title>1. CHAPTER XI</title>
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    <div class="chapter" id="id1039867"><h2>1. CHAPTER XI</h2>


<p id="id1039873"><span id="id580832"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->

“Harriet, poor Harriet!”—Those were the words; in them lay the
tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted
the real misery of the business to her.  Frank Churchill had behaved
very ill by herself—very ill in many ways,—but it was not so much
his behaviour as her own, which made her so angry with him. 
It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet’s account,
that gave the deepest hue to his offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a second
time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery.  Mr. Knightley
had spoken prophetically, when he once said, “Emma, you have been
no friend to Harriet Smith.”—She was afraid she had done her nothing
but disservice.—It was true that she had not to charge herself,
in this instance as in the former, with being the sole and original
author of the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might
otherwise never have entered Harriet’s imagination; for Harriet
had acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill
before she had ever given her a hint on the subject; but she felt
completely guilty of having encouraged what she might have repressed. 
She might have prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. 
Her influence would have been enough.  And now she was very conscious
that she ought to have prevented them.—She felt that she had been
risking her friend’s happiness on most insufficient grounds. 
Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she
must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were five
hundred chances to one against his ever caring for her.—“But, with
common sense,” she added, “I am afraid I have had little to do.”
</p>

<p id="id1039876"><span id="id580839"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
She was extremely angry with herself.  If she could not have been
angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.—
As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings
from any present solicitude on her account.  Harriet would
be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy about Jane,
whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same origin,
must be equally under cure.—Her days of insignificance and evil
were over.—She would soon be well, and happy, and prosperous.—
Emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted. 
This discovery laid many smaller matters open.  No doubt it had been
from jealousy.—In Jane’s eyes she had been a rival; and well might
any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed. 
An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack,
and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. 
She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself
from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged
that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond
her desert.  But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! 
There was little sympathy to be spared for any body else. 
Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be
more severe than the first.  Considering the very superior claims
of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect
on Harriet’s mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.—
She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon
as possible.  An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston’s
parting words.  “For the present, the whole affair was to be
completely a secret.  Mr. Churchill had made a point of it,
as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost;
and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum.”—
Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted.  It was her
superior duty.
</p>

<p id="id1039879"><span id="id580848"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous,
that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to
perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. 
The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her,
she was now to be anxiously announcing to another.  Her heart beat
quick on hearing Harriet’s footstep and voice; so, she supposed,
had poor Mrs. Weston felt when she was approaching Randalls. 
Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!—
But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance.
</p>

<p id="id1039882"><span id="id580853"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Well, Miss Woodhouse!” cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room—
“is not this the oddest news that ever was?”
</p>

<p id="id1039890"><span id="id580865"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“What news do you mean?” replied Emma, unable to guess, by look
or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.
</p>

<p id="id1039897"><span id="id580875"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“About Jane Fairfax.  Did you ever hear any thing so strange? 
Oh!—you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has
told me himself.  I met him just now.  He told me it was to be
a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning
it to any body but you, but he said you knew it.”
</p>

<p id="id1039864"><span id="id580882"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“What did Mr. Weston tell you?”—said Emma, still perplexed.
</p>

<p id="id1039905"><span id="id580891"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank
Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately
engaged to one another this long while.  How very odd!”
</p>

<p id="id1039912"><span id="id580904"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so extremely odd,
that Emma did not know how to understand it.  Her character appeared
absolutely changed.  She seemed to propose shewing no agitation,
or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery.  Emma looked
at her, quite unable to speak.
</p>

<p id="id1039917"><span id="id580912"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Had you any idea,” cried Harriet, “of his being in love
with her?—You, perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she spoke)
who can see into every body’s heart; but nobody else—”
</p>

<p id="id1039914"><span id="id580924"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Upon my word,” said Emma, “I begin to doubt my having any such talent. 
Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached
to another woman at the very time that I was—tacitly, if not openly—
encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?—I never had
the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank
Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax.  You may be
very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.”
</p>

<p id="id1039928"><span id="id580930"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Me!“ cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished.  ”Why should you
caution me?—You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill.“
</p>

<p id="id1039936"><span id="id580941"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,”
replied Emma, smiling; “but you do not mean to deny that there
was a time—and not very distant either—when you gave me reason
to understand that you did care about him?”
</p>

<p id="id1039925"><span id="id580957"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Him!—never, never.  Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?”
turning away distressed.
</p>

<p id="id1039950"><span id="id580967"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Harriet!“ cried Emma, after a moment’s pause—”What do you mean?—
Good Heaven! what do you mean?—Mistake you!—Am I to suppose then?—“
</p>

<p id="id1039958"><span id="id580979"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost; and she
sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.
</p>

<p id="id1039945"><span id="id580991"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned
from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak,
it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma’s.
</p>

<p id="id1039974"><span id="id581007"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I should not have thought it possible,” she began, “that you
could have misunderstood me!  I know we agreed never to name him—
but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else,
I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed
to mean any other person.  Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed!  I do not
know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. 
I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill,
who is like nobody by his side.  And that you should have been
so mistaken, is amazing!—I am sure, but for believing that you
entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment,
I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost,
to dare to think of him.  At first, if you had not told me
that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been
matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);—
I should not have dared to give way to—I should not have thought
it possible—But if you, who had been always acquainted with him—”
</p>

<p id="id1039967"><span id="id580998"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Harriet!“ cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely—”Let us
understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. 
Are you speaking of—Mr. Knightley?“
</p>

<p id="id1039979"><span id="id581024"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“To be sure I am.  I never could have an idea of any body else—
and so I thought you knew.  When we talked about him, it was as clear
as possible.”
</p>

<p id="id1039993"><span id="id581036"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Not quite,” returned Emma, with forced calmness, “for all that
you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. 
I could almost assert that you had named Mr. Frank Churchill. 
I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you,
in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of.”
</p>

<p id="id1039996"><span id="id581042"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh!  Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!”
</p>

<p id="id1039998"><span id="id581051"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I
said on the occasion.  I told you that I did not wonder at
your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you,
it was extremely natural:—and you agreed to it, expressing yourself
very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning
even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward
to your rescue.—The impression of it is strong on my memory.”
</p>

<p id="id1040004"><span id="id581057"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh, dear,” cried Harriet, “now I recollect what you mean; but I
was thinking of something very different at the time.  It was not
the gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant.  No! (with
some elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance—
of Mr. Knightley’s coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton
would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in
the room.  That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence
and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel
how superior he was to every other being upon earth.”
</p>

<p id="id1040008"><span id="id581064"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Good God!” cried Emma, “this has been a most unfortunate—
most deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?”
</p>

<p id="id1040011"><span id="id581074"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? 
At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been,
if the other had been the person; and now—it is possible—”
</p>

<p id="id1040023"><span id="id581088"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
She paused a few moments.  Emma could not speak.
</p>

<p id="id1040016"><span id="id581096"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,” she resumed, “that you should feel
a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. 
You must think one five hundred million times more above me than
the other.  But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if—
strange as it may appear—.  But you know they were your own words,
that more wonderful things had happened, matches of greater disparity
had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore,
it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before—
and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—
if Mr. Knightley should really—if he does not mind the disparity,
I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it,
and try to put difficulties in the way.  But you are too good for that,
I am sure.”
</p>

<p id="id1040032"><span id="id581103"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Harriet was standing at one of the windows.  Emma turned round
to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,
</p>

<p id="id1040029"><span id="id581111"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your affection?”
</p>

<p id="id1040045"><span id="id581121"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Yes,“ replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—”I must say
that I have.“
</p>

<p id="id1040051"><span id="id581131"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,
in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes.  A few minutes were sufficient
for making her acquainted with her own heart.  A mind like hers,
once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress.  She touched—
she admitted—she acknowledged the whole truth.  Why was it
so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley,
than with Frank Churchill?  Why was the evil so dreadfully increased
by Harriet’s having some hope of a return?  It darted through her,
with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one
but herself!
</p>

<p id="id1040054"><span id="id581138"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the
same few minutes.  She saw it all with a clearness which had
never blessed her before.  How improperly had she been acting
by Harriet!  How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational,
how unfeeling had been her conduct!  What blindness, what madness,
had led her on!  It struck her with dreadful force, and she
was ready to give it every bad name in the world.  Some portion
of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits—
some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice
by Harriet—(there would be no need of compassion to the girl
who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley—but justice required
that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,)
gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness,
with even apparent kindness.—For her own advantage indeed, it was fit
that the utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes should be enquired into;
and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest
which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained—or to deserve
to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.—
Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion,
she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed
the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it,
the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.—
Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves.
</p>

<p id="id1040057"><span id="id581144"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad
to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge,
and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation,
to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling
delight.—Emma’s tremblings as she asked, and as she listened,
were better concealed than Harriet’s, but they were not less. 
Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation
that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil,
such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.—
She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward
patience, to Harriet’s detail.—Methodical, or well arranged,
or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be;
but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and
tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit—
especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory
brought in favour of Mr. Knightley’s most improved opinion of Harriet.
</p>

<p id="id1040060"><span id="id581151"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since
those two decisive dances.—Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,
found her much superior to his expectation.  From that evening,
or at least from the time of Miss Woodhouse’s encouraging her
to think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking
to her much more than he had been used to do, and of his having
indeed quite a different manner towards her; a manner of kindness
and sweetness!—Latterly she had been more and more aware of it. 
When they had been all walking together, he had so often come and walked
by her, and talked so very delightfully!—He seemed to want to be
acquainted with her.  Emma knew it to have been very much the case. 
She had often observed the change, to almost the same extent.—
Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him—
and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had
known of his opinion of Harriet.  He praised her for being without
art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous, feelings.—
She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had dwelt
on them to her more than once.—Much that lived in Harriet’s memory,
many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look,
a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied,
a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected,
by Emma.  Circumstances that might swell to half an hour’s relation,
and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed
undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences
to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not
without some degree of witness from Emma herself.—The first,
was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk
at Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came,
and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from
the rest to himself—and at first, he had talked to her in a more
particular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular
way indeed!—(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed
to be almost asking her, whether her affections were engaged.—
But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them,
he changed the subject, and began talking about farming:—
The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half an hour
before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his
being at Hartfield—though, when he first came in, he had said
that he could not stay five minutes—and his having told her,
during their conversation, that though he must go to London,
it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all,
which was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to her. 
The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one
article marked, gave her severe pain.
</p>

<p id="id1040064"><span id="id581160"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did,
after a little reflection, venture the following question. 
“Might he not?—Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought,
into the state of your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin—
he might have Mr. Martin’s interest in view?  But Harriet rejected
the suspicion with spirit.
</p>

<p id="id1040040"><span id="id581168"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Mr. Martin!  No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. 
I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be
suspected of it.”
</p>

<p id="id1040069"><span id="id581177"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear
Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.
</p>

<p id="id1040081"><span id="id581186"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I never should have presumed to think of it at first,” said she,
“but for you.  You told me to observe him carefully, and let
his behaviour be the rule of mine—and so I have.  But now I seem
to feel that I may deserve him; and that if he does chuse me,
it will not be any thing so very wonderful.”
</p>

<p id="id1040086"><span id="id581193"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter
feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma’s side,
to enable her to say on reply,
</p>

<p id="id1040084"><span id="id581208"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is
the last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman
the idea of his feeling for her more than he really does.”
</p>

<p id="id1040101"><span id="id581219"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory;
and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which at
that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her
father’s footsteps.  He was coming through the hall.  Harriet was
too much agitated to encounter him.  “She could not compose herself—
Mr. Woodhouse would be alarmed—she had better go;”—with most ready
encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through
another door—and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous
burst of Emma’s feelings:  “Oh God! that I had never seen her!”
</p>

<p id="id1040105"><span id="id581229"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough
for her thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the confusion
of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours. 
Every moment had brought a fresh surprize; and every surprize
must be matter of humiliation to her.—How to understand it all! 
How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising
on herself, and living under!—The blunders, the blindness of her
own head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about, she tried her
own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place, every posture,
she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed
on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had been imposing
on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was wretched,
and should probably find this day but the beginning of wretchedness.
</p>

<p id="id1040094"><span id="id581234"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the
first endeavour.  To that point went every leisure moment which her
father’s claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary
absence of mind.
</p>

<p id="id1040110"><span id="id581249"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling
declared him now to be?  When had his influence, such influence begun?—
When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank
Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?—She looked back;
she compared the two—compared them, as they had always stood in
her estimation, from the time of the latter’s becoming known to her—
and as they must at any time have been compared by her, had it—
oh! had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute
the comparison.—She saw that there never had been a time when she
did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when
his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear.  She saw,
that in persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary,
she had been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her
own heart—and, in short, that she had never really cared for Frank
Churchill at all!
</p>

<p id="id1040120"><span id="id581255"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. 
This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry,
which she reached; and without being long in reaching it.—
She was most sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation
but the one revealed to her—her affection for Mr. Knightley.—
Every other part of her mind was disgusting.
</p>

<p id="id1040117"><span id="id581263"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every
body’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every
body’s destiny.  She was proved to have been universally mistaken;
and she had not quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. 
She had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared,
on Mr. Knightley.—Were this most unequal of all connexions to
take place, on her must rest all the reproach of having given it
a beginning; for his attachment, she must believe to be produced only
by a consciousness of Harriet’s;—and even were this not the case,
he would never have known Harriet at all but for her folly.
</p>

<p id="id1040126"><span id="id581268"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to distance every
wonder of the kind.—The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane
Fairfax became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison,
exciting no surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing
to be said or thought.—Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an
elevation on her side!  Such a debasement on his!  It was horrible
to Emma to think how it must sink him in the general opinion,
to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at
his expense; the mortification and disdain of his brother, the thousand
inconveniences to himself.—Could it be?—No; it was impossible. 
And yet it was far, very far, from impossible.—Was it a new
circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by
very inferior powers?  Was it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek,
to be the prize of a girl who would seek him?—Was it new for any
thing in this world to be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous—or for
chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct the human fate?
</p>

<p id="id1040129"><span id="id581274"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward!  Had she left her where
she ought, and where he had told her she ought!—Had she not,
with a folly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying
the unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy
and respectable in the line of life to which she ought to belong—
all would have been safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.
</p>

<p id="id1040133"><span id="id581282"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise
her thoughts to Mr. Knightley!—How she could dare to fancy
herself the chosen of such a man till actually assured of it!—
But Harriet was less humble, had fewer scruples than formerly.—
Her inferiority, whether of mind or situation, seemed little felt.—
She had seemed more sensible of Mr. Elton’s being to stoop
in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr. Knightley’s.—
Alas! was not that her own doing too?  Who had been at pains to give
Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?—Who but herself
had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,
and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?—
If Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.
</p>



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